One Step At a Time
by WorldsGreatestDefective
Summary: After practically drinking his weight in liquor, Jason drunk dials Bruce. He never expected to say what he did, and he certainly didn't anticipate what happened later. One-shot. Rated T for Jason's drunken, foul mouth.


**Random one-shot that came to mind. I don't own anything... the usual. Hope you all enjoy!**

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><p>"Okay, I just want to ask you one thing… have you ever tried clawing out of anything? And I don't mean clawing a chick out of her clothes."<p>

Snort. God, I snorted. Fuck, I hate when my brain is working faster than my… brain. You know what, I don't have to make sense. Two beers, four whiskey shots, three tequila shots, and who the fuck knows what that "Ophelia" woman gave me. I don't need to make anything that I don't want to make, least of all sense. If Bruce wanted coherent, he should have called the Replacement.

Wait, no, I called him. Why the fucking fuck did I call him? God damn… speed dial… No, this wasn't a conversation, this was voicemail. No, no, it was… this was some sort of videomail. Right. I'm on camera thanks to the wonders of technology and my smartphone. Jesus, as drunk as I am, I'm so dense with this new-age crap you'd think I first died in the 80s.

Snort. Why is that funny?

Fuck it, I don't care.

"Okay, so… so… one thing. Have you ever tried clawing out of something? I know what you're going to say. And, no, Dad, I'm not plastered enough to think that you're going to talk back to me right now since this is a one-sided conversation. I just…"

Why the hell am I pausing? This isn't just some dramatic pause, either. I'm not bracing myself for some Jane Austin mindfuck. Bigger question: why did I call him "Dad"? I'm vowing off tequila for at least a week. Or whiskey. One of the two. What's the saying? Whiskey before tequila is gonna kill ya? Somehow, that doesn't sound right.

"Alright, anyway, I'm going to answer for you. It. Sucks. Sucks, champ! Champ? Where the hell did I ever get that from, by the way? Boss, I get. Champ? How the fuck did you not… whatever, that's in the past. Like, a lifetime ago."

Another snort. God, I want to kill myself right now.

"You know what's worse, though? As bad as clawing out of that damn coffin fucking was, and let me tell you it blows to have your fingernails peeling off, the worst was being fucking alone. So… so there's that. Also, being back was just no fucking picnic for a while there. I mean, really. I don't remember much of the first bit, and that Lazarus bullshit can go fuck itself. I don't know how the Lazarus Pit would go about doing that, but it's a pit… it'll figure it out. It has dudes in it all the time."

"Most of what sucked though… I really need a new word for 'sucked'… whatever, most of it was when I realized I was back to square one. And I don't mean that fresh, new life bullshit. I was fine with my old one. As horrible as it could be, I was perfectly fucking fine with my old one. I didn't need a new one. Not one where no one recognized me and no one couldn't give two shits. Actually, you know who got my second chance? Tim. Tim got my second chance."

I sway at the force of my words, overcorrecting as I damn near fall on my face, instead flopping on my ass near the couch. Of course not on it. Why would I care enough about my tailbone to make sure I sat _on_ the couch? The hardwood floor is clearly fucking fine right now. At least the jolt of pain sobers me up for a minute.

"You know what? I… I don't blame the kid for taking it. He's not a bad second chance. He does good work. Well, did until he got the boot, too. We all get fired, don't we? We're… we're family, but we get fired. I mean, my firing was a bit more in the literal sense."

Another snort, but this one breaks in my throat into some horrible whimper. Like some damn sound a dog would make if you slam the door in its face. And that's what I feel like right now: like a bitch dealing with a shit ton of slammed doors.

"Why the hell do you think that is?" The question is in the open before I can stop it, so I just let the rest tumble out. Sure. Why the hell not? It's not like I haven't already embarrassed myself enough for one night.

"Maybe because we're not actually a family? I mean, what the fuck are we, Bruce? Not just you and me, but all of us. What dysfunctional clusterfuck are we? There's you, a socially inept billionaire with some affinity for sad little boys who look like damn personal clones (creepy, by the way, and a little narcissistic). Then there's an orphan acrobat with what has to be split personalities, the Replacement who is probably autistic or some shit, your demon spawn who needs to be tested for rabies, and don't even get me started on me. The only sane one is Alfred, except he's too busy trying to put us all together that I wonder if he'd have some Munchausen by Proxy Syndrome if he were with any other family."

Okay, blitzed out or not, saying that about Alfred feels like shit. No one talks badly about Alfred. Everyone else? Fair game. Not Alfred. I'm not sure if it's the liquor hitting me or the sudden chill from my words, but judging from my picture on the screen I look even greener after saying it. Tequila's not helping, that's for damn sure.

"Sorry. Just… just forget I said anything. Or chalk it up to me being me, or whatever it is you say to yourself. That works."

How long is this videomail shit going to let me talk for? Shouldn't it have cut me off by now? Christ, who the hell cares? I set the phone down beside me, too damn lazy to switch the settings and apparently too masochistic to shut it off. My hand, now warm from the overheating phone, pinches the bridge of my nose.

"Bruce… Dad, I'm tired. I'm just really, really fucking tired. You know what I mean? Wait, no, you don't. You sleep, like, four damn hours a week and still save the world, go to parties, and train kids to follow you and die for you. You have no fucking idea what I mean."

A string of curses even _I_ don't understand spill out of me. Word vomit before the real kind comes, I guess.

To hell with it. I'm too tired. Without another word after the last 'insert-noun-and-add-fuck' into the phone, I finally turn the damn thing off and throw it at the wall. Not my brightest idea. I blame the whiskey. Or Ophelia.

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><p>Coffee. I smell coffee. Why the hell do I smell coffee? I swear to God, if Dick pulled another one of his "just visiting" crap, I'm going to kill him.<p>

And now the headache comes. And the nausea. And the…

I don't really know or care how the bucket showed up in that second, but damn it if I'm not happy that I didn't just puke all over my feet. At least, I would be happy if I could feel anything other than tequila and stomach acid spewing from my throat. Awesome, I didn't need my esophagus anyway.

A moment later and someone's hand is resting on my back while a cold cloth is placed on the back of my neck. It should surprise me. Someone else being in my apartment should be more of a shock, but the second his hand touches my back I'm less surprised and more disgusted by how comforting it is.

Bruce. Why the hell wouldn't it be Bruce, here and now? This hangover wouldn't be miserable enough without him showing up.

In what feels like forever, I'm reduced to spitting out the pieces of whatever is sticking to my teeth. I want to try and figure out why it tastes like asparagus, but the returning nausea begs me to think of something else, or nothing at all. Preferably nothing.

"All done?" Bruce asks.

"For now."

He takes the cloth from my neck and raises my head up more gently than he ever could if he were donning the cowl. He wipes my forehead and mouth, the coolness easing some of the leftover illness. I want to tell him to leave me the hell alone, that I'm not a fucking baby, and it's too damn late for any of this fatherly crap. Been there, failed that.

Except I can't say a damn bit of it. I just sit here like a jackass, keeping my eyes closed.

Bruce chooses then to get up and empty the bucket, grab a clean cloth, and get a glass of water. I'm not dumb enough to believe he's never been here before, pulling his own "checking in" crap like Dick, but it's still weird how much he can make himself at home.

"You really do walk around like you own the place, no matter whether or not its fucking yours, don't you?" I spit before I can stop myself.

Bruce sighs, though even his sighs sound like a damn growl. "What's that supposed to mean, Jason?"

"Figure it out, detective." It sounds lame as hell, but it's all I can manage with my mouth tasting like vomit and the rest of me feeling dead… again.

He sighs and I prepare myself for the holier-than-thou lecture, but he ends it there. Instead, he raises my head up a bit more roughly than a moment ago, holding me at the chin. The fresh, cool cloth presses against my forehead. This shouldn't feel so damn comforting, but I can't help pressing myself into it. Just the cloth, though. Not Bruce's hand. Definitely not Bruce's hand.

We sit in that agonizing silence we've both become so damn used to. He wants to ask questions, I want to avoid them, vice versa. Mostly, I just want to lie back down and fucking sleep. He takes a deep breath and I realize that's not going to happen.

"You want to tell me about last night?"

"What about it?" I snap, snatching the cloth out of his hand. I can press it to my own damn forehead.

"You tell me, Jason." He doesn't react to my movements or tone. He never reacts. Not outright, except for disappointment or frustration.

"How about we just call it what it is? Drunk ramblings of a crazy person. I'll take some medicine, puke another time, get some greasy diner food, and be good as new. Really, Bruce, you didn't need to come all the way here. I can take care of myself."

He takes the cloth out of my hand, unfolds and refolds it, and places it on the back of my neck. "So you keep insisting."

I make something like a scoffing noise, or try to, but the bile rises in my throat again and I lean forward into the replaced bucket between my knees. Before I can object, Bruce rubs circles into my back, keeping the cold cloth steady as I shudder through the violent retching.

"I'd tell you to stop drinking, but it's the only time I hear from you," he says once my stomach finishes convulsing.

"That was surprisingly upfront of you, boss."

"Not 'champ' this time?"

Christ, that damn phone call. The more I remember of it, the more I want to vomit again. Unfortunately, I think I'm all out of stomach contents, so I'm forced to just sit here dumbly and try to avoid his stare.

"Guess not. Boss seems more fitting when you're helping to clean up my mess."

"Something tells me it's not just your mess, Jay."

"Oh, did someone else drink a distillery last night and vomit it in front of you?" I ask.

"You know what I mean, Jason."

I hesitate, letting my shoulders drop just slightly. "Yeah, Dad, I know what you mean."

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and I hate how much it relaxes me. Immediately my stomach eases and the cold sweats die down. We sit like this for a few minutes, the silence not so much pressing into us like it usually does.

An understanding, fractured but holding, sits between us. He'll be gone in a few hours, half a cold pot of coffee left to last me until I'm feeling up for whatever half-assed patrol I can manage. I'll be pretending to ignore the rest of the 'family', trading barbs with the brothers I never expected and never wanted when we inevitably collide on the same roof as if it's through pure coincidence. It's the same song and dance, and I was never good at dancing.

For now, we just let this, whatever it is, happen. Bruce feels my forehead, even when he knows damn well it's just a hangover. I groan and complain, but do as I'm told no matter how fucking stupid I think it is when he tells me to drink my weight in water. Though neither of us will admit it, we both know we're allowing ourselves to play the roles we weren't always good at in our previous lives—father and son.

Maybe next time I'll call sober. Or, just less drunk. One step at a time.

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><p><strong>Who knows if any good will actually come of this little moment? But, it was fun while it lasted. Hope you all enjoyed!<strong>

**-Defective**


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